Buried

PHOEBE

Phoebe's demenor was almost always bright and sunshiny or calm and soothing. But what she expressed didn't always match her internal strife. She still grieved her baby in her quiet way. Now she added her heartbreak over Emmett on top of it. This in addition to her general worries and anxieties over all of the politics and bloodfeuds and not feeling she belonged anywhere with anyone led her to the one thing she felt she could control - her work.

She had spent most of the day cleaning the clinic, and prepping a few meals, especially now that she had a tenant there. Then she made her rounds, tending to her clients, then stopped at the college to do some studying. For hours she poured over her micro-lens, gazing at the cells, drawing them in detail, writing notes about thibgs she saw occur within them - theorizing what it all meant and its implications. The shadows of the afternoon grew long and gave way to night, and still she studied, hanging pictures around her, jotting more observations, scouring books for any hints that anyone before her perhaps knew about these cells.

Her wish to forget pushed her right to the ends of her stamina. Her eyes drooped closed, having long since forgotten the hour or how her stomach protested for food, and her face pressed to the notes she was writing. Surrounded by her research, she gave in to exhaustion, asleep on the desk.

Cause getting your dreams
It's strange, but it seems
A little - well - complicated
There's a kind of a sort of : cost
There's a couple of things get: lost
There are bridges you cross
You didn't know you crossed
Until you've crossed
And if that joy, that thrill
Doesn't thrill you like you think it will
Still, why am I not happier?